


Down with the Sickness

by StarvingForAttention



Series: If At First You Don't Succeed [2]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Illnesses, Internal Conflict, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Sexual Assault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:48:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22915738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarvingForAttention/pseuds/StarvingForAttention
Summary: When Wilson succumbs to a summer fever, he finds help from an unlikely source.Whether he wants it or not is another thing entirely.
Relationships: Maxwell/Wilson (Don't Starve)
Series: If At First You Don't Succeed [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1647067
Comments: 10
Kudos: 80





	Down with the Sickness

The first day Wilson had a fever, he mostly ignored it. Minor infections were bound to happen when you ran around all day in the same wet shoes and socks. Still, he returned to camp early and allowed himself an extra legful of cooked frog after his meal.

He felt much worse the second day, but survival waited for no man. He repaired the walls in pouring rain, hoping against hope his threadbare raincoat would keep him at least marginally dry. He retired to his tent long before sunfall, feeling miserable.

At the dawn of the third day, he could no longer move his legs.

He lay shivering under his lean-to, clutching a makeshift grass blanket as close to his convulsing body as possible. He hadn't felt so wretched since the previous time Maxwell had grown bored and had tied him upside-down against a tree trunk, leaving him for dead.

The big difference was that this time, he could still move. Correction. He had to move.

The world looked hazy as he propped his head up with his prone hands. He hoped the shimmer in the air was only due to the heat of the day, but the fires gnawing at his muscles suggested otherwise. At the rate the illness was progressing, he might be dead before—

No. Focus. The ice box was only twenty paces away. Was there anything left in his food stock that he wouldn't immediately throw up? Carrots, maybe. If all else failed, he could at least suck on some ice.

It was a plan, then. If he could make it to the compost to relieve himself and then grab some food, he might not feel better, but at least he would survive another night. 

With a resigned grimace, he decided he would have to crawl.

He felt like a worm shrivelling to death in the scorching heat as he wriggled out of the cool shadow of his shelter. Each movement stoked the flames raging inside him. One yard, and he was shrouded in sweat. Two, and he had to lie down to catch his breath.

Three, and he burrowed his head against the ground as the sky and earth swapped places, swaying like a boat in a storm. He lay still and waited for his strength to return. If it didn't, he'd die. Simple as that.

"Say, pal. You look like you could use a hand."

Or as complicated as a thirty-digit difference engine.

It took all of his remaining energy to look up and scowl at Maxwell, but it was worth it. "No."

Maxwell took a puff from his cigar, then scattered the ashes haphazardly on the ground. "I see. You have simply taken up grovelling in the mud as a hobby, have you?"

"There is no mud." There had been plenty the day before, but it had already been baked dry. Not that splitting hairs helped. It was time to get to the point. "I want nothing from you, Maxwell. Get lost."

Maxwell said nothing. He focused on his cigar and watched as Wilson continued his journey. Or tried to, anyway: his arms, already exhausted to their breaking point, refused to pull the weight of his body any further than a few inches forward.

Finally, Maxwell discarded the smoking stump and ground it under the heel of his shoe. "Pathetic."

"I didn't ask for your opinion." Wilson's eyelids burned, worse even than the rest of his body. He let them fall shut and focused on steeling his resolve. Sometimes, though more and more rarely as the days and deaths piled on, Maxwell would simply taunt him and leave in a puff of smoke. Other times... "I have everything under control."

"The fever's made you delusional, pal." There was a rustle of fabric as Maxwell crouched down next to him. How could he bear wearing a full suit with gloves in such weather? The perks of inhumanity, Wilson supposed. "Fortunately for you, I'm going to play the Good Samaritan anyway."

"Don't touch me!" Wilson pushed against the arms that lifted him off the ground like he weighed no more than a kitten. The last of his strength was gone by the time Maxwell reached the tent, leaving him dangling uselessly in his arms and dreading what was to come. 

Maxwell half placed, half tossed him on the straw mattress. Wilson caught his breath and coiled his muscles, prepared for one final struggle the moment the man leaned closer. _Go for the eyes._

Only, Maxwell didn't lean closer. Instead, he left the tent. By the sound of it, he was rifling through Wilson's possessions. Then, nothing.

Wilson remained tense, his heart thundering, but it wasn't long till his illness gained the upper hand, redoubling its efforts now that Wilson was further weakened. Try as he might, he couldn't resist the shadow hands dragging him down to slumber.

* * *

He woke up keenly aware that someone was staring at him. Maxwell stood looming above him, holding a bowl and spoon.

"Finally awake, pal?" He crouched down and brought a spoonful of what looked like gruel towards Wilson. "You need to eat."

Wilson didn't move. He was no-one's fool. This was another escalation waiting to happen.

In the beginning, Maxwell had been perfectly content to observe Wilson's struggles from the sidelines, only showing up to dispense pithy insults after he inevitably perished. Then, he'd begun to show up even when he was doing fine, usually at the worst possible moments, ensuring everything went wrong.

The first time Maxwell had personally attacked him had been a shock to his entire system, a sudden change in the rules he hadn't accounted for. By the time it had escalated to drawing blood, Wilson had accepted with a grim heart that it would inevitably lead to torture and murder. 

Even then, the first forced kiss and the promise of worse had been yet another eye-opening moment, the dawning of an understanding of just how much Wilson still had to lose. Maxwell had taken so long slowly escalating his assaults that on more than one occasion, Wilson had resisted the temptation to tell him to just get on with it, since that was what would inevitably happen anyway. Only the knowledge Maxwell would likely take him up on his offer stayed his tongue.

He still sometimes wondered if living under the looming blade of it wasn't worse. Such as right then, drenched in sweat from an effort to get up and leave, wholly at Maxwell's mercy. 

He wired his mouth shut regardless.

"You're going to die if you don't eat, pal."

Wilson said nothing. He had always been stubborn, and for all the problems his personality had caused in polite society, the trait was a true windfall in the Constant.

Unfortunately, Maxwell didn't agree. "If you're so eager to die, I will be happy to indulge you later. But not now."

He shoved the spoon back in the bowl and grabbed Wilson by the hair. Wilson hissed as he was dragged to his knees, every fibre of his body protesting at the rough treatment. Once he was upright, Maxwell tightened his grip and rose to stand.

Wilson gazed listlessly at Maxwell's knees, trying furiously not to think what their position would have looked like to outside eyes. It only lasted till Maxwell yanked his head upwards. The spoon was back, laden to the brim with thick gruel, and pointed at him like a weapon. 

"Eat."

Wilson glared at the spoon, trying not the shudder. The only reason for Maxwell to feed him like this was to make it as hateful for him as possible.

The annoying thing was, Maxwell was right. Wilson would die if he didn't eat soon. The question was whether momentary survival worth the degradation at the hands of his arch-enemy. Could he even trust the gruel to be safe to eat?

He thought about it. He kept thinking about it even when Maxwell grew tired of waiting and pulled him so abruptly to the side that something in his neck popped. Finally, after he realised he had bitten through his lip in concentration, he obeyed his growling stomach. He opened his mouth. 

Maxwell wasted no time shoving the spoon in.

Wilson screwed his eyes shut and focused on the food. The gruel was warm and slid down his throat easily enough. The second spoonful tasted, if possible, even better, and after Maxwell had established to his satisfaction that Wilson would play along, he relinquished his grip enough that the ordeal was merely humiliating instead of actively agonising.

Once the gruel was gone, Maxwell let go entirely. Wilson sank back down, barely aware Maxwell had left the tent before his head hit the mattress.

He closed his eyes. He'd rest them just for a moment as he waited for the food to take effect. Then he would flee, as far as his legs would carry him...

* * *

When he woke up, he was at a bursting point.

Groaning, he wrestled himself to his side. His body weighed twice what it should have, and his joints felt like someone had taken his perfectly serviceable human body parts and replaced them with bits of shaved wood. Wonderful.

It was twilight outside, with the vague glow of a lit firepit assuring safety. With painstaking effort, Wilson hobbled onto his feet and out of the tent. 

The distance to the compost looked to be about fifty miles.

He sighed and had just taken his first gritted-teeth step forward when he heard an all-too familiar blow of a cigar behind him. 

"Do I need to repeat myself, pal?"

Wilson turned to stare at Maxwell — because of course it was Maxwell, and now Wilson was left to wonder if he had been inside the tent the entire time he had slept.

"No. I don't need a hand." He didn't, he really didn't. He had once limped for five miles after getting half of his calf bitten off by a particularly tenacious Hound. He had even lived for days afterwards. This was nothing, and to demonstrate his tenacity he lifted his foot from where it was bolted to the ground and placed it ahead of the other.

Maxwell remained silent as Wilson ignored him and took several more painstaking steps ahead. One step more, then another. Never mind the dizziness, the ground is there to catch you if needed. You've fallen enough times to know it's not the end of the world...

When he paused to catch his breath, long gloved fingers, icy when they should have been warm, curled around his upper arm and hoisted him upright. "Maybe you have all night, pal, but I don't."

"Since when?" When Wilson turned to scowl at Maxwell, he saw he had made it all of three feet from the tent. "I meant what I said."

"No doubt you did."

Wilson's feet left the ground. He flailed against the iron grip as Maxwell carried him towards the compost in the same fashion he himself took refuse to it. "I don't need your help!"

Maxwell plopped him on the ground next to the compost. "Take care of your business."

Wilson braced himself, ready to lash out, certain the bastard wouldn't allow him the privacy such matters required. Only, when he turned to hurl his demands, Maxwell had already turned around and walked back to the tent.

Wilson stared, stupefied, then hurried to do what he had come to do. Better act before Maxwell changed his mind.

Maxwell came to collect him only after he was already stumbling back towards the tent. This time, he didn't pick Wilson up: instead, he offered him his arm. Hating himself, Wilson accepted it.

He fell asleep as soon as his body hit the furs.

* * *

He woke up to birdsong, a head that felt slightly less congested than the day before, and a strange softness around him.

A cursory examination of the final item revealed he hadn't hallucinated before falling asleep: his old but still serviceable bedroll had morphed into a luxurious mattress covered with white fur, so soft he practically sank into it.

He breathed in the strange musky scent of the furs and considered his next move. His limbs still felt like they were made from lead, but no longer was his head quite so stuffed with cotton. He could think clearly again.

He was doing exactly that when Maxwell emerged with another bowl of gruel. "Always a late sleeper, aren't you, pal?"

Wilson sighed, ready to fight to assert himself. Only, he didn't need to bother: Maxwell did exactly what he had meant to demand he do, which was to hand him the bowl. Wilson's second unuttered wish, to be left alone, did not come true: Maxwell settled down to watch him. By then, Wilson was willing to pick his battles.

The gruel was made into a finer grain than the one the day before and crowned with fresh honey. It tasted better than anything Wilson had eaten in weeks.

He scarfed it down, only mindful on the last few spoonfuls of Maxwell's eyes on him. He halted with the spoon midway to his mouth, then set it down and placed the bowl on the ground next to him.

He met Maxwell's stare head-on. "Why are you doing this?"

Maxwell scoffed as though the answer should have been obvious. "I can't stand looking at sick people."

"Then why look? Why not just kill me and watch me be reborn in the prime of life?" It wasn't like Maxwell hadn't given up the pretence of not directly contributing to Wilson's demises dozens of deaths ago.

"Are you offering to die?" The smirk that always accompanied such statements seemed muted, somehow. Forced, even. "Eat."

Wilson considered disobeying, but why cut off the nose to spite the face? He finished the bowl, then watched Maxwell's shadows engulf it and drag it underground as soon as he set it back down. 

By the time he looked up again, Maxwell was gone.

He lay back down, still unaccustomed to the odd comfort of his new bed. If Maxwell had told the truth about hating illness, why not indeed just kill him? Why not leave him alone to either get better or perish? And why, as uncharacteristic as it would have been of him, why not simply cure Wilson and be done with it? No doubt he could have done so with a single snap of his fingers.

No. It was all a trap. A ploy to get Wilson's guard down for some nefarious purpose or another. Like he was going to fall for that!

The insult of it all made him seethe, which in turn aggravated his fever. By the time he was pulled under, he saw flames reflected in the fur.

* * *

The next time he woke up, his entire body had locked up in a Gordian knot.

He struggled against the muscle cramps that appeared to have afflicted every single possible muscle at once, sweating bullets against the furs. For once, he could have actually used Maxwell's help, so naturally the creep was nowhere to be found.

Wrestling against himself, he finally managed to straighten first his back and then his arms. Getting to his feet remained an uphill struggle, but finally he succeeded. Just how many such hills had he climbed? He just might have to take up mountaineering once he got back home, haha, and why not sign up for an Antarctic expedition while he was at it?

Darkness had swallowed the sky by the time he had managed his way to the mouth of the tent. It didn't hold his attention for long. Instead, it moved over to the firepit. The flames were high, as high as they could safely go even encircled by stone. Insane in the summer heat, really, even with the endothermic fire likewise lit. 

Between the two fires, equally wreathed in orange and bluish flickering flames, seated on an ornate shadowy bench which certainly been there before, sat Maxwell. He paid no attention to Wilson. His eyes were focused on the regular fire, following the sparks that sprung off the logs. Cast in equal measures glow and shadow, lacking the usual sneer and wrathful eyes, he looked... human. Gentle, almost, though hardly happy.

Then, Wilson's right leg locked up once more. He stumbled, fighting to keep his balance. Maxwell's head snapped towards him like that of a bird of prey spotting a mouse in the bushes.

"Why are you up?" Irritation, but also surprise. Genuine surprise.

"Muscle cramp," Wilson managed, his mind whirring. Somehow, he had actually surprised Maxwell! He hadn't even known that was possible!

"Go back to bed." Standing up, his face removed from the firelight, Maxwell looked more like his statues than himself.

Wilson glanced up in the direction of the compost. "In a moment."

Once he had made it back to the tent, Maxwell was waiting for him with a mug of what looked like milk.

Wilson sat down on the bedding with a groan and accepted the mug. "Where did you get this?"

Maxwell's smile was an answer onto itself. _Do you really need to ask?_

Wilson shrugged and drank. It was milk, but either he had forgotten the taste after so long without it, or there was something off about it: there was a sour sting to it, followed by a bitter aftertaste once he swallowed it down.

"The herbs are there for your muscles," Maxwell said as he stopped after the first gulp, peering suspiciously at the drink. 

Now that he mentioned it, Wilson could see flecks of something green amidst the white. Bitter medicine, huh? He drank the rest, trying not to gag at the taste.

He handed the mug back to Maxwell, then spoke without thinking. "Thank you."

The silence was instant and profound.

Wilson looked away. What had possessed him to say that? The words had simply slipped out, some old habit he had thought had eroded away at least a decade ago.

Then, mercifully, Maxwell's habitual sneer returned. "Who knew you would turn into a proper charity case, pal?"

Before Wilson could think of a rebuttal, he had already left the tent, melting into the twilight outside.

For a single, mad instant, Wilson thought about going after him.

He lay down instead, now almost comfortable even in the excessive heat. What did he really have to say? Nothing he hadn't already said over the past several dozen lifetimes. How many had it been, anyway? Sixty? Seventy? He had tried keeping count several times, but kept losing the thread.

Eighty-one, he thought as he went under. Eighty-one times awakening alone and unarmed in a fresh and hostile world. How many days and nights it had been, he couldn't even begin to guess. Literal years, for certain. Probably not even Maxwell knew the exact count. 

Eighty-one. Just how many more would there be? 

At least, eighty-two would probably have to wait...

* * *

It was too hot, even for summer. Even for a bed of fur. Even for a high fever. He had turned liquid in his slumber, molten earth flowing through him and scalding him from within.

It was with distinct horror that he understood he was wide awake and that the heat was real and not some lingering remnant of a fever dream. 

He raised his hand to at least mop up the perspiration off his brow. Only, his fingers didn't budge an inch from where they had sunken into the fur. Nor did his legs. Only his eyelids obeyed.

Still coming to terms with being made a prisoner in his own flesh, he became acutely aware there was someone lying beside him on the bedding. Someone whose hand rested on Wilson's up-turned thigh — bare thigh, he realised with a jolt, his trousers were tucked down to his knees — and whose other hand...

"Awake, are we?" The silky softness of Maxwell's voice couldn't hide the blade concealed in it. "No more muscle cramps, pal?"

Wilson's mouth fell open. That was as much as he could do. The intended curse, reproval, scream, any sound at all, none of them materialized. All that his numb tongue and throat managed was a kind of low gurgle.

"Just relax, pal. I'm not going to hurt you."

Like Wilson could ever have trusted those words. Besides, the hot touch stroking him to firmness — slowly, oddly slowly considering how desperately he had ached to be touched, even if he hadn't wanted it like this, never like this — while it didn't hurt per se, it felt like claws burrowing into his soul.

"Mmm—" He forced his stubborn lips to take the appropriate shape, battling against the — drug, it had to be, no way had his fever rebounded this suddenly and with such force all on its own — cursing himself for letting his guard down after promising himself he wouldn't. "Ma—"

"That's right. Say my name." Maxwell sounded more amused than anything. It was more than enough to make Wilson fall silent even if the next sound hadn't proven impossible to his disobedient tongue.

He focused on breathing and trying to find some strength to raise himself up, or at least to roll away, to _move_ , anything that wasn't thinking about Maxwell's fingers stroking him, or Maxwell's body flush against his back, or Maxwell's breathing, nearly as tortured as his own — no, focus! Look outside, think of the cool air and the deadly creatures prowling the night, all tooth and claw and suffering, think of last time you died, slashed to ribbons by a werepig's claws after wandering into the wrong neighbourhood after nightfall on a full moon...

Maxwell's hand slowed down, then halted entirely, still wrapped around Wilson. He squeezed. Not hard, but it was enough to jolt Wilson's attention back to the present. "Not intense enough for you, pal?"

Before Wilson could decide how best to protest, the hand on his hip disappeared between their bodies and crept towards his rear.

Wilson stiffened. There had to be some power, some reserve of strength he could draw on to tell his addled muscles now was not the time to just lie still and take it—

Two fingers slipped within him like they had always belonged there.

If Wilson hadn't already been petrified, this would have frozen him. There was no way it should have been so easy, so painless, even with the slick — _where had that come from?_ — no, even if he didn't exactly have personal experience on the matter, the tattered volumes penned by anonymous authors he had furtively studied in his adolescence had made it plain his body should have opened up slowly and only with great effort. Not like this, unless he was... he was...

"Aren't you relaxed, pal?" The curl of Maxwell's fingers, intense enough that the stretch made Wilson see stars, was nothing in the face of the relief of recalling just how he had been drugged. Of course his body would open up when his muscles had been stupefied into submission. There was nothing wanton about being stretched open like this if he could in no way resist it, no worse shame than—

A moan escaped his lips.

He clamped his throat shut, desperate to remain silent, desperate to not have been heard, desperate not to hear Maxwell's condescending laughter and especially not to feel his hands as he began to work both in tandem, too hot, too fast, too much everything...

It wasn't long till he spilled. Maxwell halted only for an instant, then continued tormenting him at the exact same pace, intent on smothering every last bit of dignity Wilson had left as the pleasure receded and oversensitivity and profound shame took over. 

Then, as abruptly as he had stuck his fingers inside, Maxwell retreated. He let go entirely and shifted aside. 

"Look at me, Wilson."

A useless command, one Wilson couldn't have obeyed even if he had had any desire to do so. Maxwell waited for several moments regardless before grabbing him by the hair and twisting his head till his eyes were skywards.

"Look at me."

Wilson averted his eyes. He lacked the strength to close them, so he looked for something upon which to fix his gaze. There was only the uniform green fabric of the tent. 

Distantly, he realised he was crying. He wondered just when he had begun.

Finally, he looked at Maxwell.

Maxwell didn't blink once as he took in his expression. His eyes had a cold gleam to them, like icy hunger, but there wasn't so much as a single line of humour in the curve of his mouth. It was the face he had worn by the fires, only much older, more tired, twisted in a way Wilson couldn't begin to explain. And yet, almost sorrowful.

Wilson blinked, hoping the shed some of the tears clinging to his eyelashes. 

_What do you want from me?_

Eye contact, apparently. Once Maxwell received it, he held Wilson's gaze like a magician hypnotising a hapless member of the audience. No words. No change in expression. Only that one, inexplicable look.

Wilson narrowed his pupils. That much he could do. 

_I hate you._

Maxwell nodded once, briefly and ponderously.

The next moment, Wilson was back down on the furs, his roots aching. He heard Maxwell stand up and then step over him.

"That's enough fun for one night, pal." 

Even as he slipped into unconsciousness, rising fever overtaking him once again, Wilson had to wonder who the words had been meant for. To Wilson? They had been spoken so quietly he had barely caught them. To Maxwell himself? But then, why such venom and spite?

Maybe they weren't meant for anyone at all, he thought as the last of his wakeful thoughts dampened down. Just the ravings of an evil lunatic. Just like everything else he says...

* * *

The first morning, Wilson woke up alone and covered in sweat, hair sticky with fluids that made him consider shaving it all off.

He was woozy enough that he had to take constant breaks, but he managed to look after himself for the day. The ice box contained nothing but its namesake, but Maxwell had left his farms and emergency firewood alone. It was plenty.

He fell asleep by the blue flames that night. The tent had a rancid aura to it, best avoided.

The second day, he could move around enough to chop down a slight tree growing within eyesight from his camp. He could actually taste his dinner that night, even if it tasted mostly burned.

The third day, he strapped on his gear, took a spear in hand, and set off to hunt for fresh food. He felt good. Great, even. It was nice to have another lease on life.

The devastation he had felt at Maxwell's assault faded along with his fever, if only out of self-preservation. He could either go to pieces, or he could survive. He had survived so far.

What really lingered, instead, was Maxwell's firelit expression; the softness of his eyes Wilson would have previously thought impossible; his genuine surprise. Why had he helped him? If all Maxwell had wanted was to toy with him, there had been nothing stopping him from doing that from the start. The last-minute assault aside, maybe there was still some spark of decency in Maxwell's heart. Just a small one. But still. A spark.

On the fourth day, when the first set of horns sprouted from Wilson's forehead, he was forced to re-assess that evaluation.


End file.
